A Clear Midnight
by Walt Whitman
This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless,
Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson
done,
Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the
themes thou lovest best,
Night, sleep, death and the stars.
Being a charter member of the society of creative procrastination, I have decided to celebrate, National Poetry Month, a little late.
So, I invite you, my friends, to join with me and post some of your favorite poems or snippets.
Note: only cheaters will post limericks! LOL
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
by Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it's queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there's some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
NO limericks! that leaves me out. phew...
ReplyDeletemorning warren.
actually, poetry not my forte - i've always loved poe because he scared me half sick when i was younger. love the psalms all.
Being of West-Saxon stock... here's one of my favorites.
ReplyDelete-FJ
The birth of one of my favorite subjects for poetry comes from Homer (prophesy/ Cassandra)... and was picked up and continued by Aeschylus and the other great tragic poets...
ReplyDeleteThere's a particular variant on the theme by Callimachus which I enjoy Bath of Pallas
And a slightly altered and re-contextualized modern rendition...(and I apologize for the length...I cut the "dedication")also by Tennyson
Tiresias
I wish I were as in the years of old
While yet the blessed daylight made itself
Ruddy thro' both the roofs of sight, and woke
These eyes, now dull, but then so keen to seek
The meanings ambush'd under all they saw,
The flight of birds, the flame of sacrifice,
What omens may foreshadow fate to man
And woman, and the secret of the Gods.
My son, the Gods, despite of human prayer,
Are slower to forgive than human kings.
The great God Ares burns in anger still
Against the guiltless heirs of him from Tyre
Our Cadmus, out of whom thou art, who found
Beside the springs of Dirce, smote, and still'd
Thro' all its folds the multitudinous beast
The dragon, which our trembling fathers call'd
The God's own son.
A tale, that told to me,
When but thine age, by age as winter-white
As mine is now, amazed, but made me yearn
For larger glimpses of that more than man
Which rolls the heavens, and lifts and lays the deep,
Yet loves and hates with mortal hates and loves,
And moves unseen among the ways of men.
Then, in my wanderings all the lands that lie
Subjected to the Heliconian ridge
Have heard this footstep fall, altho' my wont
Was more to scale the highest of the heights
With some strange hope to see the nearer God.
One naked peak‹the sister of the Sun
Would climb from out the dark, and linger there 30
To silver all the valleys with her shafts‹
There once, but long ago, five-fold thy term
Of years, I lay; the winds were dead for heat-
The noonday crag made the hand burn; and sick
For shadow‹not one bush was near‹I rose
Following a torrent till its myriad falls
Found silence in the hollows underneath.
There in a secret olive-glade I saw
Pallas Athene climbing from the bath
In anger; yet one glittering foot disturb'd
The lucid well; one snowy knee was prest
Against the margin flowers; a dreadful light
Came from her golden hair, her golden helm
And all her golden armor on the grass,
And from her virgin breast, and virgin eyes
Remaining fixt on mine, till mine grew dark
For ever, and I heard a voice that said
"Henceforth be blind, for thou hast seen too much,
And speak the truth that no man may believe."
Son, in the hidden world of sight that lives
Behind this darkness, I behold her still
Beyond all work of those who carve the stone
Beyond all dreams of Godlike womanhood,
Ineffable beauty, out of whom, at a glance
And as it were, perforce, upon me flash'd
The power of prophesying‹but to me
No power so chain'd and coupled with the curse
Of blindness and their unbelief who heard
And heard not, when I spake of famine, plague
Shrine-shattering earthquake, fire, flood, thunderbolt,
And angers of the Gods for evil done
And expiation lack'd‹no power on Fate
Theirs, or mine own! for when the crowd would roar
For blood, for war, whose issue was their doom,
To cast wise words among the multitude
Was fiinging fruit to lions; nor, in hours
Of civil outbreak, when I knew the twain
Would each waste each, and bring on both the yoke
Of stronger states, was mine the voice to curb
The madness of our cities and their kings.
Who ever turn'd upon his heel to hear
My warning that the tyranny of one
Was prelude to the tyranny of all?
My counsel that the tyranny of all
Led backward to the tyranny of one?
This power hath work'd no good to aught that lives
And these blind hands were useless in their wars.
O. therefore, that the unfulfill'd desire,
The grief for ever born from griefs to be
The boundless yearning of the prophet's heart‹
Could that stand forth, and like a statue, rear'd
To some great citizen, wim all praise from all
Who past it, saying, "That was he!"
In vain!
Virtue must shape itself im deed, and those
Whom weakness or necessity have cramp'd
Withm themselves, immerging, each, his urn
In his own well, draws solace as he may.
Menceceus, thou hast eyes, and I can hear
Too plainly what full tides of onset sap
Our seven high gates, and what a weight of war
Rides on those ringing axlesl jingle of bits,
Shouts, arrows, tramp of the horn-footed horse
That grind the glebe to powder! Stony showers
Of that ear-stunning hail of Ares crash
Along the sounding walls. Above, below
Shock after shock, the song-built towers and gates
Reel, bruised and butted with the shuddering
War-thunder of iron rams; and from within
The city comes a murmur void of joy,
Lest she be taken captive‹maidens, wives,
And mothers with their babblers of the dawn,
And oldest age in shadow from the night,
Falling about their shrines before their Gods,
And wailing, "Save us."
And they wail to thee!
These eyeless eyes, that cannot see thine own,
See this, that only in thy virtue lies
The saving of our Thebes; for, yesternight,
To me, the great God Ares, whose one bliss
Is war and human sacrifice‹himself
Blood-red from battle, spear and helmet tipt
With stormy light as on a mast at sea,
Stood out before a darkness, crying, "Thebes,
Thy Thebes shall fall and perish, for I loathe
The seed of Cadmus‹yet if one of these
By his own hand‹if one of these‹"
My son, No sound is breathed so potent to coerce,
And to conciliate, as their names who dare
For that sweet mother land which gave them birth
Nobly to do, nobly to die. Their names,
Graven on memorial columns, are a song
Heard in the future; few, but more than wall
And rampart, their examples reach a hand
Far thro' all years, and everywhere they meet
And kindle generous purpose, and the strength
To mould it into action pure as theirs.
Fairer thy fate than mine, if life's best end
Be to end well! and thou refusing this,
Unvenerable will thy memory be
While men shall move the lips; but if thou dare‹
Thou, one of these, the race of Cadmus‹then
No stone is fitted in yon marble girth
Whose echo shall not tongue thy glorious doom,
Nor in this pavement but shall ring thy name
To every hoof that clangs it, and the springs
Of Dirce laving yonder battle-plain,
Heard from the roofs by night, will murmur thee
To thine own Thebes, while Thebes thro' thee shall stand
Firm-based with all her Gods.
The Dragon's cave
Half hid, they tell me, now in flowing vines‹
Where once he dwelt and whence he roll'd himself
At dead of night‹thou knowest, and that smooth rock
Before it, altar-fashion'd, where of late
The woman-breasted Sphinx, with wings drawn back
Folded her lion paws, and look'd to Thebes.
There blanch the bones of whom she slew, and these
Mixt with her own, because the fierce beast found
A wiser than herself, and dash'd herself
Dead in her rage; but thou art wise enough
Tho' young, to love thy wiser, blunt the curse
Of Pallas, bear, and tho' I speak the truth
Believe I speak it, let thine own hand strike
Thy youthful pulses into rest and quench
The red God's anger, fearing not to plunge
Thy torch of life in darkness, rather thou
Rejoicing that the sun, the moon, the stars
Send no such light upon the ways of men
As one great deed.
Thither, my son, and there
Thou, that hast never known the embrace of love
Offer thy maiden life.
This useless hand!
I felt one warm tear fall upon it. Gone!
He will achieve his greatness.
But for me I would that I were gather'd to my rest,
And mingled with the famous kings of old
On whom about their ocean-islets flash
The faces of the Gods‹the wise man's word
Here trampled by the populace underfoot
There crown'd with worship and these eyes will find
The men I knew, and watch the chariot whirl
About the goal again, and hunters race
The shadowy lion, and the warrior-kings
In height and prowess more than human, strive
Again for glory, while the golden lyre
Is ever sounding in heroic ears
Heroic hymns, and every way the vales
Wind, clouded with the grateful incense-fume
Of those who mix all odor to the Gods
On one far height in one far-shining fire.
-FJ
Warren,
ReplyDeleteWhat a great idea for a posting!
Okay, I've got two famous favorites, the first in its entirety, a snippet from the second because most will already be familiar with it.
1. Death Be Not Proud
by John Donne
(1572-1631)
DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
I love the above poem for many reasons, one of which is its connection to John Gunther's memoir (same title). Has anyone here read that Gunther memoir? My class reads that book, and it provokes a lot of discussion.
2. The Raven
Edgar Allan Poe
[First published in 1845]
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'...
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!
The beauty of Poe's language! BTW, John Astin does an excellent one-man-Poe show. I saw the complete show at Frostburg State University a few years ago. Astin becomes Poe on stage! I've also seen Astin perform as Poe at the Poe Birthday Celebration in Baltimore--twice. I have had the distinct honor of having been kissed by John Astin. Believe me, the man's acting range goes far beyond the role of Gomez Addams.
I see that you posted Frost, whom I also love. Not long ago, Farmer and I had a brief discussion about "Mending Wall."
I may come back by later to post a poem by one of my students. Our classes' poet laureate writes free verse and wrote a tribute to Ronald Reagan at the time of Reagan's funeral.
I wonder if anyone else here will post "Flanders Fields" or "The Charge of the Light Brigade"? Those are two more of my many favorites.
Off to check Farmer's link now.
Farmer,
ReplyDeleteIsn't the bust of Pallas mentioned in Poe's "The Raven"?
why yes it is, aow. quote the raven, nevermore...
ReplyDeleteYes, Poe's poem portends the birth of the post-modern and a turning "away" from Pallas' noon-tide light... and an enveloping night. The muse dresses in black.
ReplyDelete-FJ
Those who gaze upon the goddess Pallas naked in the sunlight into blackness go...
ReplyDelete-FJ
Aniken Skywalker comes to mind...
ReplyDelete-FJ
One goes "Beyond Good & Evil" as Nietzsche would say. Few become re-born as "children". Lions they remain.
ReplyDelete-FJ
One of the reason's I discourage youth from becoming philosophers... but nobody listens.
ReplyDelete-FJ
Plato's "Allegory of the Cave"... breaking out of the cave... seeing the sun... going back into the cave (dark) to free other prisoners... the "disorientation" that comes with the experience.
ReplyDelete-FJ
A Platonic Transition from temperance to courage to wisdom. A Nietzschean metamorphosis from camel to lion to child.
ReplyDelete-FJ
Freud's "Eros" (life/ love) and "Thanatos" (death/ hate)...
ReplyDeleteThe smell that attract's, the odor that repulses
The taste that is sweet, followed by the bitter
The sight that is bright, followed by darkness
The sound that is loud, then silence
The feeling of pain, and the absense/ relief
And he joy of dancing between them all. Of finding a harmony... a ratio... a "measured" proportion.
-FJ
(ooops, better get back to poetry before I bore the muse)
okay one last... from the feeling of beauty and the sublime (Kant)
ReplyDelete-FJ
For anyone who wonders what Poe was really thinking when he wrote "The Raven"... he once explained it...here.
ReplyDelete-FJ
A canzione from Petrarch (not as good in translation)
ReplyDeleteYou who hear the sound, in scattered rhymes,
of those sighs on which I fed my heart,
in my first vagrant youthfulness,
when I was partly other than I am,
I hope to find pity, and forgiveness,
for all the modes in which I talk and weep,
between vain hope and vain sadness,
in those who understand love through its trials.
Yet I see clearly now I have become
an old tale amongst all these people, so that
it often makes me ashamed of myself;
and shame is the fruit of my vanities,
and remorse, and the clearest knowledge
of how the world's delight is a brief dream.
-FJ
how did i know i'd find you here, farmer? you having a good time today? your post on what poe was feeling on the raven is my next perusal.
ReplyDeletemy favorite poem "Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening"
ReplyDeleteIt's the only poem I can still recite from memory.
Just contemplating the shadow that has crossed my soul... pondering a move to search for a sunlit meadow to lie down in... yet somewhat reluctant to disembark this more melancholy feeling.
ReplyDelete-FJ
dear God, farmer - are you waxing poetic? move once in awhile so that raven doesn't swoop in and...well...
ReplyDeleteor are you making up for lost time since warren procrastinated on this posting?
ReplyDeletePoetry isn't my favorite form of communication, though I do enjoy some. I think Warren has procrastinated to give time to Farmer John to load his computer and bowl us over! Now the procrastination on the other hand...hmmm, where was I? Good choices all, but how about a little Beowulf?
ReplyDeletetmw
Whitman's poetry about death is more moving than his poetry about male genitalia.
ReplyDeleteAnyway... how about some Beamish haiku?
Birdshit smeared windshield
Police car rushes me to jail
For pissing on street
left overs, beamish?
ReplyDeleteEyes- Excellent choice! Lest we forget!
ReplyDeletetmw
Here's the student poem I mentioned, with introduction. Not a classic, but I brag on talented students:
ReplyDeleteWritten by a homeschool student, the following free-verse poem commemorates the passing of Ronald Reagan. This young poet is a Christian and a patriot, and graduated from high school last June.
A Great Man Remembered
Two flames--
One is extinguished,
The other is never-ending,
Today a great man moves on,
Maybe not in this world,
But in Heaven.
He helped fight off the evil in this world.
He helped those in time of justice,
This great man was President Ronald Reagan--
A leader,
A husband,
A Christian,
Even though his body is broken,
His spirit still lives.
At the right hand of God
He sits and talks to Him
About the world.
And he says, “I am truly home.”
One flame extinguished--
The other still lives,
And will live eternally.
--N.B.
June 2004
Farmer,
ReplyDeleteI'll use that Poe essay next year if my literature class studies "The Raven." Very likely that we'll read it--American Literature course.
Eyes has posted "In Flanders Fields."
ReplyDeleteMy dearest great-uncle was a WWI veteran.
Hey Nanc,
ReplyDeleteYou missed some spicy debate on the immigration issue on FPM today. Ernesto is at it again. Batya says there's a boycott of him? Guess I'll join.
Have a day!
The poem seems familiar... I think I may have read it at your sight, always. Simplicity of style is always refreshing... and honest.
ReplyDelete-FJ
yes, flo - you are correct - i about died laughing the other night when you were the only one slamming loonesto! how could you have known?
ReplyDeleteIn the Poe commentary, he knocks the trancendentalists. I went and checked out Emerson... Poe was right. Emerson wrote incredibly insightful essays, but his poems weren't not very engaging. They did not draw the sharp contrasts that Poe draws...
ReplyDeleteBut Nietzsche wasn't a bad poet... He knew about sharp-contrasts...
Out of the High Mountains - Aftersong from "Beyond Good & Evil"
O noon of life! A time to celebrate!
Oh garden of summer!
Restless happiness in standing, gazing, waiting:—
I wait for friends, ready day and night.
You friends, where are you? Come! It's time! It's time!
Was it not for you that the glacier's grayness
today decked itself with roses?
The stream is seeking you, and wind and clouds
with yearning push themselves higher into the blue today
to look for you from the furthest bird's eye view.
For you my table has been set at the highest point.
Who lives so near the stars?
Who's so near the furthest reaches of the bleak abyss?
My realm—what realm has stretched so far?
And my honey—who has tasted that? . . .
There you are, my friends!—Alas, so I am not the man,
not the one you're looking for?
You hesitate, surprised!—Ah, your anger would be better!
Am I no more the one? A changed hand, pace, and face?
And what am I—for you friends am I not the one?
Have I become another? A stranger to myself?
Have I sprung from myself?
A wrestler who overcame himself so often?
Too often pulling against his very own power,
wounded and checked by his own victory?
I looked where the wind blows most keenly?
I learned to live
where no one lives, in deserted icy lands,
forgot men and god, curse and prayer?
Became a ghost that moves over the glaciers?
—You old friends! Look! Now your gaze is pale,
full of love and horror!
No, be off! Do not rage! You can't live here:
here between the furthest realms of ice and rock—
here one must be a hunter, like a chamois.
I've become a wicked hunter! See, how deep
my bow extends!
It was the strongest man who made such a pull—
Woe betide you! The arrow is dangerous—
like no arrow—away from here! For your own good! . . .
You're turning around?—O heart, you deceive enough,
your hopes stayed strong:
hold your door open for new friends!
Let the old ones go! Let go the memory!
Once you were young, now—you are even younger!
What bound us then, a band of one hope—
who reads the signs,
love once etched there—still pale?
I compare it to parchment which the hand
fears to touch—like that discoloured, burned.
No more friends—they are . . . But how can I name that?—
Just friendly ghosts!
That knocks for me at night on my window and my heart,
that looks at me and says, "But we were friends?"—
—O shrivelled word, once fragrant as a rose!
O youthful longing which misunderstands itself!
Those yearned for,
whom I imagined changed to my own kin,
they have grown old, have exiled themselves.
Only the one who changes stays in touch with me.
O noon of life! A second youthful time!
O summer garden!
Restless happiness in standing, gazing, waiting!
I wait for friends, ready day and night.
You friends, where are you? Come! It's time! It's time
The song is done—the sweet cry of yearning
died in my mouth:
A magician did it, a friend at the right hour,
a noontime friend—no! Do not ask who it might be—
it was at noon when one turned into two . . . .
Now we celebrate, certain of victory, united,
the feast of feasts:
friend Zarathustra came, the guest of guests!
Now the world laughs, the horror curtain splits,
the wedding came for light and darkness . . . .
-FJ
All this rich meat, and me with the gout!
ReplyDeleteIts going to take me a while to digest or my feet, (and head) will explode!
Or like a former PR roomate said after a weekend binge, "Madre Dios! Oh, my head! I think she's going to splode!"
;^)
I love it!
i knew beamish' post would get to you warren!
ReplyDeleteFarmer,
ReplyDeleteYes, I have previously posted that student's poem.
By coincidence, the poel laureate stopped by my classes today for a visit. I'll notify him of this thread.
warren - beak alert first article.
ReplyDeletethat is a fine tribute to a fine man, n.b. - my own, nearly 15 year old son loves president reagan and has drawn pictures of him that are true to life (pencil) and has pictures of him in his room. we also support the reagan library when funds allow.
ReplyDeletewarren:
ReplyDeletei'd post some lyrics from Audioslave, but i don't think i can stay awake for much longer. the song is "I Am the Highway". great track, good lyrics, especially the chorus.
FJ:
seeing as you know the Plato's "Allegory of the Cave" i am curious to whether you have seen the movie "Pi".
The movie Pi rocks, Drummaster.
ReplyDeleteDM, I know you're busy and I know what its like when you're so tired that you can't hold your head up.
ReplyDeleteYou're always welcome here.
drummaster,
ReplyDeleteNo, I haven't seen pi. I no longer carry around my compass and straight edge. But it sounds fun. Is there going to be a sequel, phi? If so, maybe I'll catch it. You know Plato and his "Timaeus" and all those platonic solids. I suspect he got the sign for over his door "Let none who know not geometry enter" from the Pythagoreans during the early years he spent with them. Did you ever hear the story of the Pythagoreans who were on a boat when one of their party first discovered, and then proved, the existance of an irrationale number? They threw him overboard! (I love those oldies but goodies). ;-)
-FJ
Thank you for the lead, tmw... I have never read Beowulf. I think it has now moved to the top of my reading pile. Can you recommend any specific translation (I'm afraid "Old English" is a little beyond my ken)? Here's an excerpt from one...
ReplyDeleteLO, praise of the prowess of people-kings of spear-armed Danes, in days long sped, we have heard, and what honor the athelings won! Oft Scyld the Scefing from squadroned foes, from many a tribe, the mead-bench tore, awing the earls. Since erst he lay friendless, a foundling, fate repaid him: for he waxed under welkin, in wealth he throve, till before him the folk, both far and near, who house by the whale-path, heard his mandate, gave him gifts: a good king he! To him an heir was afterward born, a son in his halls, whom heaven sent to favor the folk, feeling their woe that erst they had lacked an earl for leader so long a while; the Lord endowed him, the Wielder of Wonder, with world's renown. Famed was this Beowulf: {0a} far flew the boast of him, son of Scyld, in the Scandian lands. So becomes it a youth to quit him well with his father's friends, by fee and gift, that to aid him, aged, in after days, come warriors willing, should war draw nigh, liegemen loyal: by lauded deeds shall an earl have honor in every clan.
-FJ
a nanc original
ReplyDeletebayo
b b b bayo
bayo
wolf!
i like golf.
would somebody please tell me why wolf and golf do not rhyme?
now, for some nancphilosophy:
ReplyDeletehaving a one track mind keeps you focused.
you heard it here first, folks! oh, there's more where that little gem came from.
Sorry...
ReplyDeleteHere's one for the kiddies...
The night was dark and dreary
the robbers were in their den
one robber said to another
"Tell me a story!"
and so he began...
The night was dark and dreary...
There folks, that ought to keep her busy for a while... ;-)
-FJ
ROFLMAO!!!
ReplyDeletefarmer - why are you not here blogging in my place? btw you figure into my first post which i will be posting before this evening. and, you have also given me a grand idea for another post i may do next week.
okay, now you can finish the story!
Farmer John- Sorry, it's been a while and the book is put up, will find and let you know as soon as I do! Massive 3 1/2 yr. cleaning going on! Sick son, yahoo down for hours...I know, excuses, excuses, excuses!
ReplyDeleteBe blessed all!
tmw
LOL! GBA!
ReplyDelete-FJ
I guess I'd better stop scarin' off the customers. I love your new blog, and unfortunately for you, seem to have already formed a new habit of dropping in.
ReplyDeleteI don't own a blog, because I prefer to remain a moving target. You and warren have much more courage than me. And I appreciate finding an occassional resting place under your long-limbed tree of peace.
-FJ
you could do this on the run - i do!
ReplyDeletetell you what, farmer since you've been here all day with me - i'll go post my article and you can be the first to critique me. on it right now.
ReplyDeletep.s. if the entire blog disappears, please don't tell warren where i've gone off to. here goes. no really, here goes.
ReplyDeletefj:
ReplyDeleteno sequel. it's a movie about human nature by Darren Aronofsky [his debut before a "Requeim For A Dream"]. i saw it over a year ago, but in my humanities class, we watched it after reading Plato's "Allegory" [we also wrote a paper comparing the two] and the film made so much more sense after reading it. i encourage you to pick it up. i'm glad beamish gave it a go also.
Thanks for the tip drummaster, I'll try and give it a go... us old people live such active lives, so it may take a while to track it down... LOL!
ReplyDelete-FJ
Hey Warren! Nanc tells me you like guns? I bought my first one this past week. .40 calibre Smith & Wesson P40. What do you think? I'll try it out this weekend..can't wait.
ReplyDeleteGood choice Florian!
ReplyDeleteI'm a .45 man myself. I hear that S&W .40 is a sweet piece.
Practice, practice, practice.
Are you just starting shooting or do you mean that this is the first one "you" have bought?